They’d gone, cutting a smooth line through the black water of the Thames, their boat almost immediately swallowed by the mist.
And good riddance.
Ian had breathed a sigh of relief and turned to his friend. “Thank you,” he’d said. “I’m almost glad the lace makers embarked on this journey and forced my hand. I might have stewed for weeks over what to do, if my people hadn’tbeen bearing down on London. Now it’s finished. At least this bit.”
“Well, you know me,” North had said, “I barely take aim before I pull the trigger. Drives my wife mad. I’m happy to help. Now...” he’d looked around, “...where shall we meet these lace makers of yours?”
“Oh no,” Ian had said. “That, I must do entirely alone. I’m their landlord, and it’s delicate work—regaining their trust. I must do it entirely alone. Can you understand?”
“Aye,” North had said, clapping him on the back. “I’d be of little help—I’m a terrible landlord, as you know. My sister, on the other hand, would be brilliant. Unfortunately she keeps strict daytime hours. She is very sensible in that way.”
They’d parted ways and Ian had reconvened with Loring to wait for the caravan from Dorset. They could have ridden out, hoping to intercept them on the outskirts of town, but Ian felt it was more strategic to meet them on the docks.
An hour later, they’d come. To man and ox, they’d been tired, wet, unnerved by the size of London and complexity of the streets. Ian had endeavored to appear assured and patient, a landlord well ahead of the situation. The beleaguered tenants had assembled around him; their eyes wide with both shock and relief.
It had been Ian’s goal to demonstrate quiet, graceful leadership, to shepherd them rather than condemn. For once, his long, careful study of the situation had allowed him to realize this. He knew them by name, of course, and he’d greeted each man personally. He’d ascertained their safety and well-being and examined their livestock after the long, hurried journey. He’d had Loring provide them with something to eat and drink.
Finally, he’d addressed them, standing as a group in the abandoned mews, his voice loud over the sound of the rain just outside the door. He’d hoped to strike a balance between warning about the dangers of smuggling while not condemning them for their subterfuge. He’d told them ofhis plan to eradicate the export levy for small craftsman but made no promises.
Finally, he’d announced that two-nights lodging in London had been arranged for their comfort and recovery. Hostlers, he’d said, had been hired to help them convey the wagons back to Dorset.
And then he’d said he’d wanted to meet with them personally—each man, if they were willing—to discuss what they might do to move forward in the wake of the riots.
Something about the night—be it the fatigue and the cold rain, their anxiety about smuggling, or the surprise meeting of their full-of-promises landlord—had lent itself to Ian’s favor.
The tenants had agreed. Honestly, they’d had no choice—the smugglers had vanished and they’d not thought about what they might do next. Ian embraced it. He and Loring saw them to safe lodging and Ian promised to meet with them again in the morning. In the end, just as the storm was mounting, Ian had left the lot of them with Loring and ridden for home.
Home.Where he now finally,thankfully, could allow himself to exhale, to reflect on a job... if not “well done,” at least a job not totally ruined.
He heard footsteps in the corridor outside the boot room, and thought of Drewsmina. His stomach clenched and, no surprise, his body hardened at the prospect. He’d been forced by necessity to put her out of his mind, and now she was all he could think about. She would help him out of his wet clothes. She would strip him, perhaps, right here in the—
“Your Grace?” It was his valet, Pruitt. Ian grimaced. Pruitt, nowhere to be seen at the onset, now would be omnipresent.
The valet ignored his expression and descended on Ian’s wet clothes like a falcon on a mouse. Ian had just collapsed on the bench to have the man pull his boots when Imogene strode down the corridor, Ivy behind her, half running to keep up.
“Thank God,” Imogene said, sounding so very grown-up, Ian paused in the act of removing his boot.
“You’re back,” said the girl. “Finally.”
“Hello to you, too,” he said, holding out his other boot to Pruitt. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
“Because I’m mad with worry about your wife.”
Ian dropped his leg. He turned on the bench to stare at the girl. “Worried,why?” His heart, exhausted, barely beating, suddenly, remarkably, kicked back into a frenzied hammer.
“Because,” intoned Imogene, “I can’t find her anywhere in the house, and Ivy—” and now she glared at her sister “—believes she may have gone out.”
“Goneout?” Ian repeated, grinding out the words.
He stood up. “Surely, you are mistaken. She wouldn’t go out, not in rain like this. It’s pitch-black and freezing. The wind almost unseated me.”
“It wasn’t storming when she went out. It was only a drizzle. She’s been gone two hours.”
“Two hours?”Ian spun to his nieces, sending Pruitt scrambling against the wall. “You’re serious. You believe Drew has left the house?”
“If she’s not with you, then—yes.” Imogene had begun to back away.
“No, she’s not with me. She’s here, with you. Safe and dry like any sensible, sane woman would be.”
